


Shouldn't

by invocations



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-04
Updated: 2011-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:52:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invocations/pseuds/invocations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rinoa's father once told her that girls shouldn't whistle, for it is unladylike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shouldn't

  
A long time ago, she learned to whistle. It took a lot of useless wheezing and puffing before any sound was heard, and when she finally got it she was eleven and unwilling to stop, as if she thought stopping would mean she had to start all over again.

It took her longer to learn how to keep a tune; it was harder to form the song when you weren’t using words. She kept at it, stubborn, whistling often and glibly. She remembers his pursed lips as she whistled her mother’s songs, the best songs she knew. _Same old songs, just once more._

“Girls shouldn’t whistle,” he said rather stiffly. “It’s unladylike.”

The tune died away with a sick, feeble warble. “ _Dad_ , you’re so…old-fashioned. I can whistle if I wanna!” She dashed away before he could say anything, wrenching herself free of his unreadable stare. The cold slap of her bare feet on the tiles was comforting ( _girls shouldn’t run in the house_ ), back in the days where she called him dad.

She wondered why he made such comments all the time. If she were a boy, he’d let her do anything and everything, and he wouldn’t have any _shouldn’ts_ to say. Did he wish she were a son? The persistent thought made her eyes sting with something between hurt and eleven-year-old anger. Her breath jumped with each pounding step and she couldn’t whistle. His sternness demanded her to be stoic, to hold in her tears and emotions. The contradiction confused her: wishing for a son, having a daughter, trying to raise her as both demure daughter and surrogate son. Alternately stamping out and moulding her into how her mother used to be.

It was only later, when she was older and glimpsing her reflection ( _his_ hair, _her_ eyes and face and voice and walk and name and everything), that she realised it must have hurt him to be reminded of someone else and how hard it must’ve been for him to raise her.

Maybe it was time to visit him again. She strolled away with a spring in her step, a tune on her breath.


End file.
